Luck
Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x reader, eventual Derek Morgan x reader Summary: You meet Aaron Hotchner. Warnings: assistant!reader, pre-bau prosecutor!hotch era, r wears glasses, allusions sexism Words: 1.6K
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a/n: the beginning before they knew it was the beginning
Today wasn't your day.
You stumbled to your desk, setting your coffee down gently and then dropping a pile of files and your purse on your desk unceremoniously. Too quick, maybe. But all you wanted was to sit down, organize the files, and then drink your coffee. Your luck wasn't having your wants. Your luck wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself for having wants at all.
Instead of what you wanted, the files knocked over your coffee. Brown liquid that was maybe a tad too light streamed out of the cup. Audibly, you groaned, rushing to pick it up.
Tissues, tissues— tissues! Your hands latched onto your Kleenex box, pulling out tissues and wiping up the coffee. It was unsalvageable now. A complete waste.
You were already going to sigh. There was no more appropriate reaction. Then your eyes drifted left and the sigh that left you was purely involuntary.
You felt like luck was playing a big joke on you, because the coffee didn't spill onto the files you came in with. It didn't even touch your files. It only spilled onto papers that were already there, clearly given to you by someone else.
You were already thinking of ways to explain this, ways to explain I spilled coffee everywhere and onto important legal files to the big shot lawyers here who all treated you like you were their assistant.
You weren't. You were one person's assistant. But that person was currently gone, and another was taking his place. Today.
That thought made you narrow your eyes. You glanced back at the papers, squinting at them through your glasses. A post-it note was attached, reading Anthony Raymond Cases, Replacement A. Hotch.
You felt relieved, knowing now this was just a summary of Raymond's ongoing cases. You had a pretty sound mental log of those, so you wouldn't need the coffee-assaulted papers, anyway. They were illegible. Even the post-it note was blurred, making it hard to read.
Hotch, you repeated to yourself. His name didn't sound familiar, so he had to be a newer lawyer. Regardless, you'd have to get on his good side.
You threw out the papers and your coffee cup, swinging your purse on your shoulder. You needed a new coffee. If he was a lawyer and he was going to be working here, he needed coffee. You would get yourselves coffee.
Luck was not on your side that day. But you decided it didn't matter. Your boss would like you. You were praying he was a decent person, hopefully younger than Raymond and more likely to respect you.
If all else failed today, his liking you would be the least luck could give you.
❧❧
You knocked on the office door. The writing on the glass still read Anthony Raymond, but you assumed they'd be getting it fixed anytime soon.
From inside, a smooth voice responded, "Come in!"
You took that as your cue, strolling into the room with a bright smile to hide the fact that you'd had a shitty morning. Still, you said, "Good Morning, Mr. Hotch!" You set down a coffee on his desk before holding your hand out. "I'm Y/N Y/L/N, your assistant."
He looked up at you with a pinch of confusion, but it was gone in a flash. He stood up to shake your hand, glancing between you and the coffee. You kept eye contact with him, and you berated yourself for noting things like how alive his eyes were.
It was normal, you told yourself, to notice things like how brown his eyes were, or how his hair seemed to fall in just the right direction. That was observation. But what you noticed immediately was the promise.
He didn't look like a lawyer.
He looked like he wanted much more than to be a lawyer.
You wondered if Hotch was noticing anything about you while you were noticing all these things about him. You would never know, really, because he moved on quite quickly. "Raymond had an assistant?" he questioned, letting go of your hand.
An assistant he thought was a ditz, you thought. You didn't say that. "Yes, Sir. I'm here to help with whatever you need."
He glanced back to the cup you'd placed on his desk. "And the coffee?"
"Welcome gift," you replied. "It's black, three sugars. I wasn't sure how you'd take it. I like mine a little more sweet, but most people I've met in DC don't."
He raised a brow, almost looking amused. You didn't know him, so you didn't know. "How much sweeter?"
You lightly chuckled through your nose. "I drink lattes, so it's two espresso shots with a lot of milk."
This time, you could tell clearly that he was amused. "Thank you for the coffee, Y/N."
"No problem." You got back to business. "Raymond's files should already be in order of priority on his desk. Please let me know if you need anything, Mr. Hotch. I'll just be at my desk."
You saw another flash of confusion, but you were already closing the door.
❧❧
Your day got significantly better. Hotch didn't call for you too often, but when he did, you were at the ready. He was very kind, very unlike what you were used to, not wanting to bother you. You had to assure him multiple times that it was as much his job to bother you as it was your job to be bothered.
You put yourself to work, planning out his schedule a month in advance until your hands were smeared with ink and your fingers cramped. You had packs of white-out waiting if things changed. Lawyers could be a bit unpredictable—your job was to add stability.
You knocked on Hotch's open door with blue ink still coating your palms, walking in thereafter. Your eyes floated to his office window, where the sky was darkening, before looking back to him with the same chipper smile.
"So," you started, "you have a meeting tomorrow at 8; that should run until 10. Your next meeting is at lunch with Jackson to discuss the Wyatt case."
He looked up from the papers on his desk, surprised with the same hint of amusement you saw earlier. "That was fast."
"Yes, Sir. Everyone wants to meet you."
The amusement in his eyes only grew, like there was an inside joke you weren't getting. "I meant you," he clarified. "You're fast."
"Oh." Your cheeks heat up; you weren't sure why. "Yeah, I guess you could say that." It felt like praise.
But then, he outright complimented you, and you nearly short-circuited. "You're really good at your job."
You fought not to make a face or say "oh" a second time. He'd laugh at you—you knew he would—no matter how polite or kind he was being right now.
You forced yourself not to focus on how attractive he was, or how he was nice things to you when you thought he'd be an asshole, or how he was saying nice things you'd barely ever heard. You swallowed. "Thank you, Sir."
He shook his head, a small smile gracing his face. And damnit, it only made him look more beautiful. "And you don't have to me call me sir, Y/N."
"Right!" You seemed to get your wits back, smiling back at him to avoid staring awkwardly. "Hotch. Well, I should be heading out now." You turned to the door. "Have a good night—"
"Wait." You screwed your eyes shut while your back was still turned to him.
Just when you thought your luck was turning up.
You turned back to him, lips upturned. "Yes?"
His brows drew together, like he was about to ask a question, but he looked like he didn't want to ask it. He seemed to wrestle with it for a few seconds before he let it out. "I've been meaning to ask... Is there a reason why you keep calling me Hotch?"
Now, your brows furrowed. "What do you mean? Is that not your name?"
"It's Aaron. Hotchner."
Your face blanched. Images of a coffee-soaked sticky note flashed through your mind. Suddenly, every time the word Hotch left your lips that day ran through your head, and you realized it should've been Hotchner.
Just your luck.
"I—" you sputtered, "Sir, I'm so sorry— there was a post-it with your name on it, and I spilled coffee everywhere, and—"
Somewhere, in your panic, he'd stood up and made his way over to you. Not too close, but close enough for you to register it. "Hey, it's fine." He stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I thought it was some sort of nickname."
You couldn't have been more embarrassed. Your boss thought you tried to nickname him. And he didn't say anything about it the entire day. "No, I— I'm sorry. I won't say it again."
"Really, it's fine, Y/N. You don't have to stop." He shrugged. "I don't dislike it."
You paused for a moment so that you didn't stammer something out, only to repeat, "You don't dislike it?"
His lips quirked up again. "No. I don't."
"Are you sure?"
"Really," he answered. "I'm sure."
"Okay..." You didn't know what more to say. "Well, then, I guess I'll get going. Goodnight... Hotch."
You caught his eyes just to make sure he was okay with it, and when you saw no discomfort, you promptly left the room, planning to go home and pretend not to exist. You cursed the universe for dealing you bad hands after bad hands today.
And you didn't know it then, but that day would change your entire life. For better and for worse.
One day, you would think of it as pure luck.
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